DEBORAH CROMBIE: Every so often a book comes along that makes you sit up with delight. That's how I felt when I read Annie Hogsett's debut novel in her Somebody's Bound to Wind Up Dead series, TOO LUCKY TO LIVE. (A sassy girl meets a hot blind guy who's just won 500 million dollars trying to convince a young friend not to gamble!) Annie's writing is so self-assured, her voice so fresh and funny, that I couldn't imagine she'd ever doubted that writing was her path.
But she did, and here she is to tell you more.
Before my dream came true.
In the lowest moments
of my quest to become a published author—a year before I found my wonderful
agent and two years before I came home at last to my fierce and supportive
editor and the warm and generous Posse at Poisoned Pen Press—I wrote an essay.
Outside my window on that
Wednesday, February 5, 2014, Lake Erie was stone-cold frozen, and I was sitting
at the rock bottom of Sad & Rejected. So I wrote my misery into my blog,
and, as so often happens, the writing raised me up and set me back on my path.
I titled the post
“When a ‘No’ Is a ‘Yes.’” And began it with some words from a favorite poet:
"It may be when we no longer know what to
do,
we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go,
we have begun our real journey."
~ Wendell Berry
This is that post.
“In the middle of last
week I finally heard from the agent who had been considering the first hundred
pages of my novel. She’d been considering it for six months. Actually, it
had been lost for four of those six. So for the last two months, her response had
been gracious, kind, encouraging. She liked it, it was good, I should not give
up. And so on. And now?
No. It was not for her.
In some respects, I was relieved because I don't think I'd ever have the guts to say no to an agent's yes. And based on things she's written online about what she’s looking to represent, my novel did not seem to be a good fit for her. Today's agent really needs to find a good fit. I get that. Therefore, I'd already moved on. About 97% on. 96% maybe. 87%?
What ensued, I can see now, was a mini dark night of the soul.
No. It was not for her.
In some respects, I was relieved because I don't think I'd ever have the guts to say no to an agent's yes. And based on things she's written online about what she’s looking to represent, my novel did not seem to be a good fit for her. Today's agent really needs to find a good fit. I get that. Therefore, I'd already moved on. About 97% on. 96% maybe. 87%?
What ensued, I can see now, was a mini dark night of the soul.
I had traveled from
Ohio to the Rocky Mountains last summer to meet this agent who had judged my
entry to be a finalist in the writer's contest for the Crested Butte Writers
Conference. I could tell she appreciated a lot of things about the story that I
myself think make it special. She'd had a chance to meet me face-to-face in all
my charming irresistibility—and still she said no.
Moreover, I'd finally permitted the whole screaming flurry about The State of Traditional Publishing and Publishing In General to penetrate the carapace of my resolve to a) find an agent b) get a publisher c) become a real bunny after all. The odds against that happening—especially that last thing, which is not now nor has it ever been in the purview of publishing— seemed vast. So very vast.
There it was. The freaking abyss.
I fell right on in. I sulked about my lost grail. Wept some over it. Ate a few—well, maybe six—brownies in its honor. (Good choice, IMHO.) And I felt really, frighteningly, totally, adverbially lost for...I think it's been exactly one week. The questions I kept asking myself were
Moreover, I'd finally permitted the whole screaming flurry about The State of Traditional Publishing and Publishing In General to penetrate the carapace of my resolve to a) find an agent b) get a publisher c) become a real bunny after all. The odds against that happening—especially that last thing, which is not now nor has it ever been in the purview of publishing— seemed vast. So very vast.
There it was. The freaking abyss.
I fell right on in. I sulked about my lost grail. Wept some over it. Ate a few—well, maybe six—brownies in its honor. (Good choice, IMHO.) And I felt really, frighteningly, totally, adverbially lost for...I think it's been exactly one week. The questions I kept asking myself were
What am I going to do
with myself?
Who am I if I'm not a
writer?
Wherever will I go?
It's too late to take up figure skating.
Then last night I was burrowing through some old emails and I stumbled over the Wendell Berry quote I've posted above. It seemed serendipitously apropos. I put it back in my email signature and this morning it all came into focus for me. At last.
Then last night I was burrowing through some old emails and I stumbled over the Wendell Berry quote I've posted above. It seemed serendipitously apropos. I put it back in my email signature and this morning it all came into focus for me. At last.
So I'm sharing.
Oh, for Pete's sake! Here's who I am: I'm a writer. I've been a writer since I was eight. Truly, I can't remember when I wasn't one. I'm a writer washing dishes. I'm a writer driving my car. I'm a writer, eating brownies. I'm a writer, most especially, when I'm writing anything at all. And when I'm in gear, fully, physically, word-to-page writing, in that space between Infinity and the keyboard of my laptop? Then? I am a writer as deeply, profoundly, miserably, exaltedly as can ever be. What's more I've been an author since I finished my first of four complete novels in 1997. Fact: Writing is not publishing, it's...um... writing. And letting people read what you write.
Will I ever find an agent? Maybe. Who knows. I haven't given up. Will I ever be published? Oh, maybe. I hope so. Will I ever— and this is the only question that makes the difference to me at the end of all things—have readers? Heck. I have readers. Honey, I have you. Every single reader counts like crazy.
I'm not sure why this feels like such a revelation to me. Maybe, because I'm a prisoner of my time and place like everybody else on this beautiful planet, I believe I actually subconsciously thought I'd have to give it all up if I couldn't sell it. That I equated "real writer" with "best-selling author." There’s my good old "real bunny" problem again. Everybody has one. Let's all make a pact to give that one up and be our own real bunnies all the time.”
Oh, for Pete's sake! Here's who I am: I'm a writer. I've been a writer since I was eight. Truly, I can't remember when I wasn't one. I'm a writer washing dishes. I'm a writer driving my car. I'm a writer, eating brownies. I'm a writer, most especially, when I'm writing anything at all. And when I'm in gear, fully, physically, word-to-page writing, in that space between Infinity and the keyboard of my laptop? Then? I am a writer as deeply, profoundly, miserably, exaltedly as can ever be. What's more I've been an author since I finished my first of four complete novels in 1997. Fact: Writing is not publishing, it's...um... writing. And letting people read what you write.
Will I ever find an agent? Maybe. Who knows. I haven't given up. Will I ever be published? Oh, maybe. I hope so. Will I ever— and this is the only question that makes the difference to me at the end of all things—have readers? Heck. I have readers. Honey, I have you. Every single reader counts like crazy.
I'm not sure why this feels like such a revelation to me. Maybe, because I'm a prisoner of my time and place like everybody else on this beautiful planet, I believe I actually subconsciously thought I'd have to give it all up if I couldn't sell it. That I equated "real writer" with "best-selling author." There’s my good old "real bunny" problem again. Everybody has one. Let's all make a pact to give that one up and be our own real bunnies all the time.”
I wrote that, and time
passed….
It’s been five years since February, 2014 and the third book in my mystery series came out on October 15. I share all this because I believe if you’re a published author, you’ll remember that journey and maybe smile. If you’re a not-yet-published author, you can be raised up, again and again, by realizing the truth and the joy of who you really are.
It’s been five years since February, 2014 and the third book in my mystery series came out on October 15. I share all this because I believe if you’re a published author, you’ll remember that journey and maybe smile. If you’re a not-yet-published author, you can be raised up, again and again, by realizing the truth and the joy of who you really are.
DEBS: I was so inspired by this. And so thrilled to have that third novel, THE DEVIL'S OWN GAME, in my hands, a new adventure for one of my favorite mystery-solving couples, Allie Harper and Tom Bennington III!
What you don't see is what you get. When a sniper targets a blind man walking along the lagoon of the Cleveland Museum of Art, the bullet is a wake-up call aimed straight for Allie Harper and Tom Bennington, shattering their illusion that the Mondo Mega Jackpot Nightmare is over.
On the day Allie—sassy, lonely, broke—met Tom—smart, hot, blind—he won $500 million trying to show a kid that gambling doesn't pay. Romance—and multiple murders—ensued, along with a new, opulent lifestyle that the couple had never dreamed possible. Then a ruthless man of formidable skills and resources hacked into the security system in their rented 9,000 square-foot lakeside mansion, and they learned just how far someone who begrudges their good fortune would go to destroy them. Now they know the past six months of peace and quiet were the calm before a rising storm of mayhem and revenge.
The new game begins tonight. An old devil. A new devil. And a new case for The T&A Detective Agency. (Yes. They should have put Allie's initial first.) Tom and Allie aren't on the case long before they discover a strong lead that takes them into the heights of Cleveland's upper-crust, where husbands and wives weave webs of betrayal with unfathomable sums of money at the center. As the threats–and murders—multiply, Allie, Tom, and the T&A must fight to beat the devil's own game. Will they get out alive?
Reds and readers, share your recipes for dealing with self-doubt--brownies or otherwise, and welcome Annie!
